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Willing Pupil
It is a temperate night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze. Dark puffy clouds hang low in the sky. The following of the six moons are visible in the sky: Herald (blue/waxing), Dayhunter (crimson/waning). Mikin Road ---- ::The smooth cobblestone road cutting through the lands held by House Mikin is designed with straight lines - even where the geography has otherwise refused to cooperate. Vassals of House Mikin and soldiers of the former Emperor's Blades have managed to ford swamps and ponds with bridges, cut through the hearts of forests, and carve gaps in hillsides to make way for the level road as it forms its axis across the landscape. ::The historical monastary of Night's Edge stands to the north of this section of Mikin Road; the location having seen more than its fair share of owners and neglect in recent decades. However, though the ruins of Night's Edge can still be explored, the land has been given to a second incarnation of the devout monastary thanks to the determination of one Celeste Mikin and a liberal amount of funding and support from House Mikin, House Kahar, and even the Imperial Government. ::The depths of the Mikin Woods spread across the horizon to the deeper north and south, while the ruined wastes of Light's Reach and the sundered bluff that it sat upon can be seen towards the west at the end of the highway. ---- Uriel strolls slowly in from the woods, his white cloak flush and heavy with the recent rains, his short hair sticking out and flattening in unruly patches. He attempts to fluff it up with a hand, and is entirely unsuccessful, merely creating new patches of flattened and tufted black and gray hair. He pulls his hand back into the sleeve of his silk shirt, and uses the now freed-up end of the sleeve to buff the onyx and jade pommel of the blade sheathed at his side. Bootsteps thump their way softly through the night, coming from the smaller Northern road, which winds its way up to Night's Edge keep. The bootsteps are coming back down the road, with every other step accompanied by an odd tapping--the third foot of a cane or walking stick. When the low, dark night clouds part enough for Herald or Dayhunter to peek through, their blue or crimson moonlight reveals the diminutive figure of Syton Temple, moving swiftly through the night. Though his cloak is on, his hood is down, and he carries his quarterstaff in one hand, like a walking stick. The young freelander looks tired and pale, moreso in the scarce evening light, and seems to wander quickly, but without destination. Varal walks back towards his horse, then frowns as he prepares to clamber back up into the saddle. "Defeats the purpose of riding if you end up getting your boots muddy," the Mikin mutters irritably as he puts a foot into a stirrup. "Bloody Shadow accursed rain," he continues under his breath. Meian casts a long glance around at all of the moving folk, reaching up to tug the hood of her black cloak over a tired, wan face. Perhaps hoping to move without notice herself at this point, the girl slips towards Night's Edge, skirting the trees at a quick stride. The white-cloaked man pivots as Syton wanders in, whether by the sound of the three-footed march or something else entirely is difficult to discern. He frowns, the wrinkles beginning to form at the sides of his eyes deepening and intensifying. Shaking his head, he turns back once more to his walking towards Varal and Meian. Syton nearly passes Uriel before noticing that he is being noticed. He opens his eyes widely and blinks a few times before turning to look at Uriel, who has already moved on by then. A grim frown comes to Syton's face before he turns to follow Uriel. He picks up his pace, in fact, to catch up beside the man. "Good eve," he greets in a gravelly voice. Gravelly enough that he clears his throat afterwards. So it is that, in the edge of the mikin wood, a certain freelander mage moves quietly through the trees, keeping to the night's shadows and moving, in a general way, in the direction of Night's Edge. Watchful and listening, he's taking his time, looking behind him as much or more as in front, one calloused hand on the dagger at his waist. Meian keeps slipping onward towards the monastery as well, paying no one else any heed as her legs carry her on at a swift pace just short of a run. Fully clad in black under the trees, she might be a difficult target to spot, although she makes no attempt to disguise the noise of her passing. Uriel furrows his brow more tightly as more figures come in from more directions. He drops back to the edge of the forest, putting his back against a shade oak and letting a deep breath out his nose. Syton stops abruptly, following Uriel's sudden retreat with an inquistively raised eyebrow. He looks up and down the road and, aparantly not seeing anything, turns his attention back to the man by the tree. "Fayed?" he asks vaguely, following the white-cloaked man as far as the edge of the road. There's a time and a place for paying close attention to such things as people chattering on on roads - and then there is a different sort of purpose. Kael has more interest, it seems, in the latter, moving quickly on and deeper into the wood, angling for the low wall of the monastary. Uriel raises his eyebrows. "I suppose you've been talking to Sahna, then," the man in the white cloak replies, chuckling darkly. "I am Faeyd." Meian is not far behind the wagon or the unseen mage, though she may not know it- the quick rhythm of her footsteps takes her to the monastery as well, casting only one brief glance over her shoulder at the other figures on the road. Syton watches the road quietly for a moment before looking back to Uriel... Faeyd... the white-cloaked man by the tree, regardless of names. He smiles tiredly and steps off the road and over to the treeline. "The Countess Sweetwater does a good deal of talking," he comments. The young Freelander nods up towards the monastery. "Her Ladyship is up there right now, no doubt ready and eager to light some cultists on fire." Faeyd shrugs a damp shoulder. "Good to see she's taking an interest. I wasn't sure if she would. What can I do for you, Master Temple?" "I was hoping for your help, Faeyd," Syton replies. His taps his quarterstaff against a tree idly for a moment before looking back to the mage beside him. "I am having dreams," he says, "nightmares. They come and go, but I have had them since I was a boy. I want to be rid of them. If they are of the Shadow, I was hoping you could help." Uriel smiles wryly, pulling a long pipe out of a loop on his pouch. He pulls a leaf-wrapped tuft of goldsmoke and packs it into the bowl before taking a flint and steel to light it, taking a few long draws before blowing out. "Rid of them?" he finally says. "I'm not entirely sure you can ever be rid of them, Master Temple. But I can teach you to control them, to make them less often, and more useful to you when they do come. It's all about realities." He takes another deep draw. "Is that sufficient for you? It seems many of your friends fear me, and fear my help. It truly amuses and humbles me that you've sought me out." "Any help would be greatly appreciated," Syton replies with a nod of his head. He stands beside Uriel, who is smoking from an ornate long pipe, at the forest's edge. Syton's eyes inspect the pipe curiously for a moment before focusing back on the man who holds it. "I cannot speak for the others," he says thoughtfully, "but all the mystery might make them a bit uncomfortable, necessary though it may be." He shrugs his shoulders before settling them back into a slump. "Regardless, you may consider me your willing pupil." Hooves can be heard from the north, another cloaked figure (a plethora this evening) in russet browns. The hood pulled up to hide the features of the woman within, though still the same chestnut mare as before. Her pace slowing at the approach towards Mikin road, the riding pausing to get her bearings. Uriel nods wordlessly to Temple, taking another slow puff from the pipe. "Then so shall it be." His eyes raise at the sight of the rider, and his offhand gives a silent, sloppy salute. Syton glances sideways at Uriel, then follows his salute up to the rider. He turns to the road and waves up at the cloaked rider. It seems that a wave was all he had in him, and once that is done, Syton turns back to Uriel. From Rampart's saddle, Celeste nods towards the two figures. "Light guide and protect," she notes towards Syton and his companion. Her heels nudging gently into the mare's side to guide her onto Mikin road....a slow canter by the two men, then another nudge to bring her to a gallop. Uriel takes another puff of the pipe as Celeste gallops off, shaking his head. He purses his lips. "It's a bit late for lessons now, so...let's see. How about you write down your nightmares for me, if you can?" He taps the bowl against a nearby tree. "Every journey needs a starting point, so we can know that we've travelled somewhere. Give me as much detail as you can, and we'll see about cleansing it, simplifying it, controlling it a bit." Syton nods dutifully to Uriel. "I've already begun doing just that, actually." He frowns a bit, "I was hoping it would help." A dismissive shrug, then he continues. "I will put them on paper for you. The full set should be done in a few days, assuming I have not been killed by Drake-worshipping cultists by then." "I'll watch over you until then. You needn't fear mere cultists. Now the Drake itself, that's what you should be fearing," Uriel comments dryly. "But I must be off. I'm so sore, I don't see myself getting much of a night's sleep, but one must try," he muses. Syton snorts softly in wry amusement. "Light keep you, Master Faeyd. I look forward to our next meeting," he says, nodding to the man in parting. He moves his quarterstaff from one hand to the other and takes a step backwards. Uriel takes two or three steps back into the foliage of the forest, and the sound of bees buzzing begins to collect around him, gaining in intensity. It rises to a crescendo before stopping suddenly, and Uriel is no more. ---- ''Return to Season 6 (2007) Category:Logs